There is something about sleep talking that I sheepishly adore.
One cannot control the impulses that make you talk, the stimuli which provide the content of your unconscious speech. Though sometimes you cannot control it, at the same time you can’t deny that sleep talk is very genuine, to a fault. You can say that the words that come out during that time don’t usually come out when the conscious mind is in control. I can’t say that for sure, I’m no psychiatrist, but I do have experiences that make me tell you such words.
When you’re caught by the scrutiny of some person who happened to be blissfully passing by, it can be pretty embarrassing. After I graduated from elementary school, I dreamt of a friend walking with me on a huge castle-city bustling with surprisingly speedy airships. We were on the big gate when I told her something about Canada (My friend is from there). I accidentally and unconsciously blurted that out, and my often-sarcastic uncle heard it.
Boom. Busted. I hated it when he saw me unconsciously and uncontrollably speaking. But deep inside, I love it.Even if it was just a concoction of hormones that made those pleasurable images in my mind.
Even for just a while, you feel like you’re on top of the world.
It’s been a while since holding someone’s hand made me really happy and in peace.
The girl, clad in a cerulean blue (I’m just guessing that it was cerulean blue. I’m not that good in colors) top while wearing a black jacket in a calmly cold February night, would not press my hand back. But it was fine.
Before anything else, I am admitting that I was a little carefree (or careless) that night. Not thinking of what would happen to me if I did this or that. However, I looked for happiness and I found it in the warmth of her hand.
For one and a half-hour, we sat, and moved as the line towards the event we agreed to attend to progressed. Out of that number, 30 minutes were spent on the progress of the line and a whole darn hour was “spent” on waiting. She could tell that I was close to starvation just by the volume of my voice whenever I talked with her. We’d talk about our respective parental units, who are all abroad by the way; we’d also chat regarding the future, where we would be busy either with studies or work, and how she would cope with standing for four hours or more serving tourists, passengers and the like on her practicum.
Sometime in between, I held her tender hand, with fingers intertwined. Although I’d stare blankly straight as I felt the soft skin of her hand, I also tried to feel her pulse for no particular reason at all. Somehow, I could not hold it tighter, like someone holding on to the edge of a cliff to save his life.
And yet, something said in me that it was the best feeling in the world, even as my hand felt a little heavy due to the uncertainty I faced after I let go of her hand (or after she wiggled out of my rather loose handle).
On the other hand, I have been a witness to my brother talking in his sleep as well. Unfortunately, I can’t make fun of him because his words seem more like an uncoherent rambling of words that only he can understand.
Maybe it’s the same case as my sleep talking. Well, except for the incident I wrote above. I would make a habit of hiding my mouth by hugging my pillow tight and in a way that it would also cover my mouth so that no one will hear me talk in my sleep.
Once there, though, I would indulge in the cover of darkness and anonymity and let my words loose. I won’t say which words, so go figure those out yourselves.
Actually, I also daydream a lot. If you can see me gazing at no one in particular and you feel that I’m just half-conscious, then I’d say that you’ve caught me daydreaming. My imagination is very vivid, to put it mildly, but I can’t exactly tell them out loud in classrooms, tambayans, public transport and the like, so I’m still going with sleep talking.